


Shitty First Drafts: Prologue for MaskTecter HeRon: Count Zero

by HereForMost777



Category: MaskTecter, MaskTecter HeRon, Original Work
Genre: Gen, Has hella glut, Probs not gonna use this, unfinished draft, very G-Recoesque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereForMost777/pseuds/HereForMost777
Summary: Currently working on a novel that's very much heavily "Toku-Inspired". In the sense that it derives many of it's conventions and thematics *from* Tokusatsu, particularly the "Kamen Rider" Metafranchise.Of course, like with anything... first iterations tend to be "shit". And this... is no exception. While I wouldn't say it's "shit" in terms of actual *content*. There's a lot of "fat", "stuffing", FILLER. If you would, and while certain works thrive on that kinda jazzy vibe. This baby... most definitely DOESN'T, atleast for the prologue.Seriously, 12 Fucking Google Doc Pages of Prologue. Haven't even gotten to the rest of the novel... Like the actual PLOT. SMH my dumbass





	Shitty First Drafts: Prologue for MaskTecter HeRon: Count Zero

\--THE FOLLOWING WORK IS UNFINISHED. IT'S JUST A SHITTY FIRST DRAFT. DON'T EXCEPT A CONCLUSION TO IT... Atleast within this particular iteration--.

\--ANYWAY, ENJOY.--

Picture it within your minds eye. The ideal 3rd Year Highschooler's bedroom, shared both by said 3rd Year, and said 3rd Year's younger sibling. 17 and 7, at a first look. They appear to lie... in complete and utter contrast on the outside, the meatsuit they wear. You mean to tell me that the highly energetic, endlessly optimisitc, and radiation emitting mini-meatballs are in literally ANY way comparable to the lethargic, salted cubes, saggedly pessimistic jumbo meatball that is the High-School Third Year.

However, get past the outsides, the sheath, the layer, and you will find... that they're quite literally the same damn thing, except with a different sauce... Aesthetic if you will. Sure, The Third Year may be unorderly, lethargic, and nihilisti-No Jerry, Jerry PUT THE KNFIE DOWNPUTTHEKNIFEDOWN! And the Second Grader of... also unorderliness, hyperactivity, and unfettered optimism. With a smile wide, cheek to cheek. But there's one unifying factor they have in common, shared between the two...

They both smell awful, simply AWFUL. It's like every focille of my nose is under constant assault with a knife. Every second is an edged, sweeping blade forcefully plunged into these holes, and then ripped out with the speed of a blazing bullet. And with the same speed, they are plunged in, once more.... back and forward, forward and back. Defiling the neat, cylindrical hole, tearing bits of flesh from it, leaving a messed, cherry hole...

Oh, and I guess they're both disorganized to high hell and can't organize for shit, that's... a pretty glaring detail, should probs have mentioned it earlier...

Hey, remember when I said that this room was "The ideal highschooler's?"". Yeah.. it's just about the opposite, like, exactass diametric opposition. Night and day, Positive and Negative, Peanut Butter & Jelly... Kinda like that.

Ideal... well that indicates a sense of somewhat perfection. Roomy, spacious, pristine, akin to a diamond, perfect in cut... Sure, ""To Each Their Own"", everyone's got their own "Deal", their ""Vibe"" of what a thing should be.... buuuuut I'm pretty that even THESE two would find their room, uhhh... IMMENSELY unideal, simply the "echelonic pinnacle", the top, the alpha and omega.... of UTTER TRASH.

....

Stereotypical, that's the word I'm looking for. Yeah it's completely 'stereotypical bro's shared room'. Wrinkled clothes, creased, thrown upon the floor nil a care, stepped on without even a second thought. MANY a pizza box, some finished, other's not. However, their shared commonality... is how they both reek of that cooking grease. Y'know the one, that lubricative crap that seeps into wherever you leave it upon. Cardboard, clothes, carpet. Without discrimination it'll seep into it. Leavin' a stain so painful that ANY woman in a ten-mile radius would shriek, stabbing your ears with an abominable scream as they ZOOM into terminal velocity. Trying to "EWEWEW GET AWAY GET AWAAAAAAY"" From it.

Oh! and how could I forget the underwear?(of only the teen, luckily). Stained in it's centermost region, with a salted liquid, of which I'd raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaather much not delve into the specifics of... Less I get "curbstompedly censored" into a perfectly square, blood soaked flesh pancake by a gang of bitchy suburban soccer moms, complainin' bout their fucken nails, "oH, mY kId DoEsN't EaT gLuTeN"". Bitch STFU your kid isn't a celiac. Sure it could be like, a preference affair, but you don't have to advertise to the whole goddamn world you attention whorish fuck. Bet the kid cowers in shame, be like "Mompleasestopcurbstompingthecashier". In that hasty, hushed tone because he doesn't wanna piss off mama.

The "grease" of the pizza boxes, the "salt" of the undies, but a pinch of sweat and B.O.) eminate forth into the air, layering onto another, complementing eachother's "mutual stank" in the WORST of ways. There's also the toy blocks scattered about the floor, but that doesn't really "mesh" with the musty teenage room vibe I'm tryna sell so SHHHHH.

Seriously, it's like my inner nose has a bunch of small lacerated cuts, and I just snorted a healthy mix of salt and lemonade. The holes fill with the sour liquid, and the little cubey crystals since salt is technically a crystal, meaning salt be of cubehood.The lemon erodes the holes, burning them away like ash, and the cubes jam their pointy corners into the raw flesh. 

...  
Okay, maybe not THAT bad. It's hella hyperbolically exaggerated. But surely you get the picture, the smell is RANCID.  
Luckily, none must bear smell to the rancid stank of the... smell, as the room is completely, utterly, WITHOUT even a DOUBT, uninhabi-

""fuuuuuckfuckfuckFUCKFUCK Where is iiiiiiit?"" Slurs a man, speedily and rushed, to an audience of no one.... but himself.  
Well... Almost.

A man scrambles about his shared living quarters, dashing 'bout left an' right. He hastily overturns the disregarded floor clothes, only to scurry to the next, a rat, thirsting for cheese.... Only for there to be no cheese, as come the next article of overturned clothing reveals... nothing more than the fuzzy blue carpet...

(ie. NOTHING).

SUDDENLY, a sharp, droning noise enters the fray. If the silence (albeit a panicked, nervous one) was a China Plate. Then this 'blaring' is someone who has just SLAMMED this 'pLaTe Of SiLeNcE' onto the floor, watchin' as it shatters, breaking into miniscule little stars... only to, WITH THEIR TOTAL BODY WEIGHT, body slamming into the ground. Destroying the shards EVEN FURTHER.

A little bit confused, and hella crazy. But atleast it's a testament to dedication right?

Why anyone would be so prejudiced against plates is simply unknown to me ((mostly because it's so laughably stupid. We're talking "Baby who's had it's head forcefully rammed into the ground repeatedly so many damn times the brain is a literal pink puddle"")).

Our man, shrieks aloud as the noise disturbs his otherwise silent scramblin' about.

He, with a haste, rushes towards the window, parallel to the street outside. And opens it.

Parked upon the street curb is an Ichor Red Minitruck, It's luster as if it were painted in Pomegranate, or cranberry. By it's door, faced towards the sidewalk, is a man. With oak, ebony skin, a 10-Gallon hat abfuscating his face with it's brim ((and per the angle of being on the second floor vs. the street)), and a Brown Aviator Jacket in the shade of bleach stirred entwined with shit, with a fuzzy, bubbly "tuft" of fir 'round the neck.

With all that to consider, one can only wonder... HOLY SHIT IS THAT LIL NAS X!?

No, you Dummydumb, Lil Nas X doesn't even wear aviators (glasses AND Jacket).

Besides, you can't just assume that every man with a 10-Gallon cap is a cowboy, you cowboyist... SMH fam.

""Dude!"" Our most certainly NOT 'Lil Nas X' friend calls out, his voice bearing a thick, Texan accent. Seasoning his voice with a bit of jest which is totally just masking his concern. After all, Black men can't POSSIBLY be emotional, that's only for gay African Americans, and we all know how much inner city black dudes hate accusations of 'le homo'. Or, inner city white dudes, latino dudes... Y'know, I'm beginning to think that race isn't the denominator we should be focusin' on 'ere...

""What's the holdup?"" he so inquires, with them hands o' his crossed, one nested in the other, and his partially relaxed face. Behind that calm face however, you can see little 'cracks' in the dam of his face, tensed mouth corners, and flaring eyelids, telling of an impatience ((which TBF is totally justified. No matter how much we care bout our bois, sometimes we just kinda get fed up with their shit)). While the 'main face' is chill, kinda flat, the 'cracks' of 'impatience' are... hella noticeable, hell, they look as if you carved the expression in with a knife, a knife!

""Th-he cam-mera! d-dude I can-n't find it anywh-here!"" He says, speech super sonic speed, flying by faster than Eminem rapping Rap God. Dude is... waaaaay too anxious over this whole thing, like, jeez.

""Brah, you like, require 'ny' he'elp?"" The 'twang's a' impatient anger fading in the 'widthy thicky' department. Though da 'wibbly wine of worry' has 'ery much smoothed out. Them voice curves taking swooping dips, before sharply slopin' upwards...

In normie speak, it means that his anger is shriking, and his concern for his bro's inability to get their shit together.

""N-nah d-dude!"" Wobbles the town of the window boi, much like a noodly, 'wibbly wine of worry' ""I'm g-good!"" he (attempts) at reassuring him. His success (or failure), is ultimately up for grabs.

Ten-Gallon sighs, an admission. Like an exasperated, anime-esque sigh. The kind a bitchy Tsundere lets out when they're fed up with the generic male lead since he can't get his shit together. It's p much... exactly like that No homo tho. "

"All right dude, but if 'ou on't get your arse 'own in 'en, I'm playin 'ountry bumpkin 'usic the 'hole way. Capische? 'ike the 'hole Nine Yards, actually... scratch 'hat, ALL 'hem, the Green Acres, the Yellow 'Ards, Red Miles, I can 'eep goin-aaaaaaand you're gone" So notices our Ten-Gallon boi, who 'as JUST noticed his friend's absence from the window. Sure they were there for some o' that rambling, They CERTAINLY yeeted out at some point. Perhaps they're on the way out now, havin found the Camera in a whole seizure of luck?

Nah... Mophead's currently dashin' (erratically) away from the window to look for the camera (of which he did NOT find). Why is he even looking for the camera in the FIRST place? 

Well... I don't know EXACTLY why in the 'ell they need a camera, but I DO know that camera's, uhhh... re-kord things? Soooo, it probably has something to do with that. Now, he was already looking crazy as is, but he's in an overdrive of sorts, literally phasing out of this plane of existence as he dashruns from cloth to cloth. Seems the threat of havin' to listen to country music had some pounds on it after all...

As he rushes forth from the seeming ""bedroom"", and into an... equally filthy room.

The sink is clogged to the brim, dishes nearly pouring out from the top, and water filling the basin. Beer bottles, scattered about the kitchen countertop like freckles on a ginger. He snags his foot on a bit of loose carpeting. It curves around the toes of his foot. Preventing proper "foot movement". Now, if he were walking slowly, he could just... y'know. Move around the snag.

But given his speed, there's no way he COULD avoid it.

""DAAAAAAARYL!"" Bellows a nasal, wrinkled old lady from up atop the stairs. Her skin dry, cracked like drywall erratically. On her nose lies a single, protruding bud of skin. Like a wad of clay it is, unsmoothed, unshaped. She's wrapped in a towel, both figure and hair. Pink little slippers sheath her, probably wet, feet.

""WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!?"" Her voice lingers in the air, thickly, like a grey smoke, lingering in form. And even when the form fades away, the scent, the dreaded, nose-shanking scent. Lingers... Those are the properties of her voice.

Now, to the surprise of NO-ONE, our friend "Daryl" has TRIPPED into the table. Hitting it's erect oaken edge with his noise, and falling onto his sides (the space in-between the left elbow and the left hip specifically, smack dab onto the ribs). A "Crashing" sound of a fall can be heard. "Daryl" (the alleged name of our friend) however, be too "blinded" per the stimuli of his "watering eyes" the whole "falling nosefirst onto an unrounded, sharp tablecorner". Dude's probably in pain enough as is. Atleast to not enough to notice the sound of a camera grandslamming it's ass to the ground.

The sound of fuzzed little slippers speeding down the creaky wooden stairs soon enters the fray. Rhythmically slamming at a hasteful pace, with but only half a second of a break. 1 2, 1 2, 1 2, 1 2. 

\---ShitShitSHITSHIT--- he thinks to himself, in the room of his mind. Door's closed, no one, but himself, inside. The words blend together, like cheese melting on mac. A solid block, turned to a puddle, just like that.

His eyes are darting, ricocheting around. Feeling the nearby carpet, eyes fogged. Looking for the camera, which is now quite hard. The old lady draws closer, only four steps away from the kitchen he's in.

' "There it-FUCK"" He utters aloud, stumbling up. With a haste, he grabs it, upon it's top. Now on his feet, and with the grandma drawing closer, He BOOKs it towards the door... 

""DARYL SO HELP YOUR MOTHER IF I FIND YOU SNEAKING OUT AGAIN!!"" Screeches the lady, an arms length away, chasing after him In spite of her shingles, and her bones frail. Her body aches, burning, without fail. But hell. She isn't gonna let her dumbass grandson sneak out of the house AGAIN, not after last time!. Her voice is jagged, Rageful. It assaults the glass, unabateful.

"NAHGRANDMATHAT'STOTALLYNOTWHATI'MDOING" He replies, his legs sprinting with the blurry speeds of a cheetah, and his mouth spewing like a faucet tap leaking. Drip... Drip... Drip... He spits out forceful pantings of air, wheezing almost, as he desperate sucks in, 'rocks' of air tumbling down into the landsink of his mouth, rolling. 

With his blazingly blurry speeds, looking more like shit smeared upon the floor than a cohesive, 'seeable' person. He crosses the boundary, the "line" denoting the barriers of the House's Rooms (Like this: [|]). No longer is he in the kitchen, with it's overflowing, overpouring dishes, and the beer bottles laid about the counter. He's in an entirely different room: One of a couch, and a reclining chair, bathed in the electric, ghostly light of a running television! Shining like light passing through the sea!...

Not like he... actually notices it, He's too busy evading "Grandma" so that his ass doesn't get smacked, and his face whacked, and MAYBE even his back cracked!

Hell, he doesn't even noticing the snoring, portly man with a doughy, balloony gut. Air soakin in with a breath, and wimperin out like a whisper. His body sprawls about the couch like a taper covering, it's limbs dangling like string strawn upon a tree branch. Sure the 'middle' is held in place by the branch, but the two ends are left thrown 'over'. Flopping about. 

And that's nary a mention of the kid sitting in front of the couch. His back bent forward to his knees, which point upward like geyser of water, shooting up His eyes are aimless, less a line (-----------) and more of a smear. They stare into the TV's light, sunken, his mouth trapped deep in a sorrowful frown (^︵^) bored out of mind... 

However, Daryl's sudden entry into the room simply lights the child's face up with a joyous flame! His frown is quite literally melting away, the 'melted wax' of sadness drooping hastily upon the floor, three drops falling per second. Within an impossibly springy bounce, he gets up, running towards his brother all the while ignoring the fact that an angry hag is chasing after him... Daryl that is. 

""Hey! Hey bw-wro! Check out this cool thing I... dwew..."" The boy excitably utters, with his childlike stutter, springing up, and brandishing the paper upward, in Daryl's face:  
[ ]  
\\(ˆ˚ˆ)/ 

"PISSOFFTRASHBAG"" Daryl retorts slurfully, his shockful words mushing, slushing together...

and thus, even when sprinting away from the raving grandmother, takes what LITTLE time he has in that room, to spit on his brother's drawing, sidestepping him shortly thereafter. Which, since he's holding the drawing in FRONT of his face, means that the spit lands SQUARE onto the scribbles on the paper.  
....  
And like that, his smile, Cheek-To-Cheek (°⌣°), slowly begins to melt, melting... melting... melting away into a frown. As our little, little boy merely stands there, neglected and disliked by the brother he cares the WORLD for.  
(°⌣°)--------->(╯︵╰,)

""DAAAAAAAAAAARYL!!!"" Screeches Daryl's grandmother, as he clambers towards him in hot pursuit even after Daryl stepped out the front door, and outside the house's confines.

Meanwhile, in the beat down, red minitruck. Ten-Gallon, waiting for Daryl. Seems to be playing some 'make-believe air guitar'. His fingers plucking unreal banjo strings as he mouths the sound of the instrument. Vibing out to some country tune... in his head.

""GET BAAAAAAAAAAAACK HEEEEEERE!"" She wails, her voice jagged with rage. Why, it's so jagged, so polished, so utterly SHARP in it's sound that it literally cracks the glass on Ten-Gallon's busted minitruck: )xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

Ten-Gallon, startled by the whole "Screaming Nasal Woman who's voice LITERALLY CRACKED MY DAMN WINDOW" thing. Spurs him out of his vibe, falling out of the 'bed' of the vibe, and landing awkwardly upon the 'ground' reality.

Only a STEP away from the passenger seat, and his Grandma closing in. Daryl cradles the camera as he approaches the door, putting it to his middle chest, and wrapping both his hands 'round it. His hold, of earth and steel. He closes his eyes, chanting a slurry, mushy soup:

\---Don'tScrewUp.Don'tScrewUp.dON'TsCREWuP-- His words creamy, Chunks of sound melt, breaking apart into liquid. Dip a finger in, and you'll see it burns, heat shooting past your finger as you pull it out. Blowing air on it to cool it down.

And just like that, he takes flight. Pushing off the ground with his feet, he shoots through the air, an arrow, or a bullet. Zipping past the sea of air, making waves in it's wake: >>-;;;------;;-->

He crashes into the front passenger seat, landing most awkwardly at that. His legs dangling low from the door, and his back, lying angled at a weird ground middle between the seat and the back cushion, as if a slope he were.

A pinkiefinger's length do his feet lie above the granular, jagged, cubey particles of the stone street. Ready to FORCEFULLY SHRED OFF HIS SKIN as he falls from the car. Dragging against the skin as he barrels through it. 

Thankfully, the car hasn't taken off yet, it probably should, given that "TestosteroneMcHaggerson"" is merely three steps away. 

After all, no way an old lady, thin: -----, stringy bones frailing, and muscles aching. Could ever hope to reach the speeds of Ten-Gallon's shambling, barely functioning Mini-Truck. It may be a hulking mass of crap, but harnessing the raw, outward force of a kaboom to make some dumb pistons go up-and-down... is a helluva lot faster than some meat shoes pushing off the ground really hard. 

""Bro ge-"" Not even two: II, words does he even get to utter before a cleaver of squeaky shrieking sound cuts him right off. Slamming it's flat edge onto his word's neck, cleanly segregating it apart.

""FHLOOR IT"" Slices Daryl's words, loud and booming. It's not a surprise that such a loud, if squeaky, voice managed to overpower Ten-Gallon's. It's as if comparing a can to a drop, The drop covers one tiny area... and the can covers the entire damn floor.

""Dude Buckl-"" He spits his words out, slickly and fast. They slip like grease, or gas passed, moving through the airy ocean, freely and boldly... Of course, Daryl still shanks his words, just less of a shank, this time 'round.

Daryl shrieks in horror.

""FHLOORITFLHOORITFHLOORIT"" Daryl gropes Ten-Gallon's arm, janking it back and forth, forth and back as the hand jitters uncontrollably. To tell him that 'uh, yes, MOVE PLEASE'. Blurring, smeared across forward and back.

The nails of Daryl's hands, sharp like knives, dig into the flesh of Ten-Gallon's arm. The cloth of the jacket aviator is soft, caving down at slighest touch. The skin however? The edge of the nail punctures a sweet, sweet hole in it. Blood leaking forth, doesn't really help that his arms are shaking...  
|||  
)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>  
|||  
Nails like knives...

Ten-Gallon's eyes jostle back and forth, rapidly from left to right. Bouncing little balls of eyeflesh, in the container of the eyesocket. Needless to say, he fucking floors it. Slamming his foot onto the gas pedal.

Like a body shocked, little jagged bolts tearing into muscle. The car flares up with life, burning bright. It's spurs to action, Zooming ahead with an arrow's might: >>-;;;------;;-->

Not even a second goes by, and Daryl's Grandmother is left far behind, growing smaller in the rearview mirror as time ticks by.

Daryl's dangling legs tense tightly as the minitruck blazes by. Less than a pinkiefinger of space lies between his feet and the pavement, the strings of his muscles grow tired, crying out heat for a break. Strings of wind passing them by, rushing up Daryl's pantleg. The loose cloth of the sweatpant's ankles flutter, taking in wind like a straw... Making that terrible ""FLPHHFLPHHFLPHH"" sound that clothes (or any rag, really) makes when it flails in the face of winds high.

Rubber stuck to glue, Daryl's arm clings to KeShawn's, wrapping around it like a helix. They sandwich the 'meat' of KeShawn's Arm, with the 'Bread' of Daryl's two other arms. After all, wouldn't you do the same if your legs were dangling out a car door as the car does a 60? You TOTALLY would, don't lie.

Daryl's grip continues it's flattening hold for a short bit, as the visage of Daryl's mother within the rear-view mirror grows smaller...

Smaller..

and Smaller.

Until eventually, she fades from view completely. Just blip! Gone. Replaced by the sight of countryside road. A Black street sandwiched between two plains of wheat and tall grass. 

Throughout ALL of this though, all of this. From the moment he entered the car, to right this very second, the shrieking of a nasal, bumbling teenager has permeated. Blanketing scene with his 'HyguhhHyuughHyuugh" and his wobbling ""aaaaAAAeeeeAaah"".

The once blazing, rolling car slowly, but surely, loses it's speed. The once speedy "VROOOOOOM" whimpering into a tiny, infant "vrooooooom...". Per the fainting of the flame, Daryl's legs no longer flail wildly in the wind. Realizing he's no longer in the danger of having his leg flesh torn into little pebbley bits. He relaxes them. Cooling down as they get a much needed break.

KeShawn sighs painfully in relief. having had to put up with little nail knives digging into his mushy little meat arms.

""Mate"" Like a guitar string plucked, reverbing quietly, vibrating barely. ""Can ya let go of 'y arm now?"" He asks, voice heaving, wobbling. 

Daryl, as anybody who's had his legs dangle out a car door while the driver does 60. Clambors into the car speedily. 

He's hyperventilating, initially. Air coming in and then right back out. Shallow, half-second breaths. A regular breath o' air has an "in" "and" "out". These scared, terrified breaths however? just "INOUTINOUTINOUT".

Luckily, this doesn't last, and soon. an "and" nestles it's way into his breaths. Slowing them down as pulls air "in", "and", "out". With his breaths silent, he sits still for a moment. Just... breathing. Grateful he's alive at all.

""OH SWEET MERCY"" Well, so much for silence. He cries, water welling up in his eyes. His voice booming, passionately fiery. Though like any man crying, his voice be wobbly: (¯`·._.·(¯`·._.·(¯`·._.··._.·´¯)·._.·´¯)·._.·´¯). His hands are clasped, holding tightly his heart. With all that ""INOUTINOUTINOUT"", you'd think it hop right out.

KeShawn chuckles under his breath, since in his eyes. He's watching a grown teen being scardy like a cat, hairs standing up on end.

Daryl slowly turns his head towards KeShawn. His face twisting, grimacing into a look jagged, sharp, and angry. Spreading rapidly... 

""WHATh... THE HELL.. DUDE!?"" He roars, livid with angry. His lungs are weezing, clawing for the air to be burning, lighting ablaze with rage. I mean... he's not really angry, like 'curbstop you off a cliff,watch as you fall'. He's just... upset, is all.

""Mate, ya told me to floor it, so I floored it. Don't see why u made. Like, factually speakin'"" he responds with neutrality. After all, Daryl DID tell him to floor it, so he floored it! Why get upset if he did EXACTLY what Daryl wanted him to do?

""Yeah, but not like THAT man! dude my legs were like noodles for fuck's sake!"" He's doing that Brooklyn thing where he emotes with his hands, sudden, sweeping motions, all that jazz.

""You said book it so I booked it mate! What? Is they're like, degrees of book it? Cuz you needa specify 'ate"" A pinch little of sarcasm in his words. Poking his finger right into fun... Literally, he pokes Daryl in the cheek as he says this.

The exasperated 'what the hell!' upon his face, eyes widened, and jaw gaped, melts quickly into an angry poud. Cheeks bubbled, brow thick and furled, and arms crossed.

""C'mon par'ner, don't be like that"" He says, voice soft as a sponge. Press into it, and it pops right back into place.

""Hmph"" Daryl pouts like a total tsundere. You weeb. 

KeShawn whips out a candy o' sorts from his pocket. Brown Wrapper, White Bubble, Blue Words. One could say it's total copyright infringement, and that lawyers are comin' to shoot him as we speak.

KeShawn's poking it at Daryl's face, and Daryl retorts by puffing air into his cheek, thus forcing back the candy. KeShawn retaliates by pushing it back. Realizing he can't push it back since his cheeks are already filled with air. Daryl concedes, huffing out some air from a small mouthhol- ONLY TO SUCK IN AIR THROUGH HIS NOSE, GIVING HIS CHEEK THE FORCE TO PUSH IT BACK. Truly Strategic Yielding at it's finest!

""C'mon 'ude, eat a Snibbler's"" KeShawn says, face straight as a ruler. You'd expect him to atleast chuckle a bit, bend that face ruler. But nope, he's 100% cereal.

Daryl turns to look at him, faces blank with a fat 'wat'. 

""Bruh,bruh, bruhbruh, bruh. I think you man Sni-"" The 'Snibbler' ever so with grace... is PELTED at Daryl's lower face, right in-between nose and cheek. In tow with this, is KeShawn screeching 'YEET'.

Daryl, recovering from the pelt, examines the wrapper in closer deta-

""FR"" He hushedly states under his breath. Staring at the wrapper in closer detail... 

The wrapper is the "poop" shade of brown, with the white 'bubble' in the surrounding the blue text, there's no way in heck it's not a snic-

""It.. It ackshually says Snibbler's..."" Dumbfounded, Daryl stares blankly, uttering in sheer 'this can't be real'. Well guess what, it is.

The look on KeShawn's face is smug. His eyebrows are like crescents, and his smile closed, and deep. 

Daryl, having been blinking in disbelief. Turns his head to KeShawn, grimacing his normally soft features into a hard, rigid...

"B R U H, Bruuuuh, BRUUUUUUUH"" His 'u's' drone, repeating, slurring as they travel through the air. Less a line straight, more curved and smeared: °º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸,ø¤°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸. Rising and falling. Up and down... 

The two dudes chuckle it out, laughing uproariously. Daryl unwraps the 'Snibbler'

""Fhood ish Fhood rhight? Who care's if it's some bootleg, probably gonna get a disease, but who cares, amirite?"" He concedes.

"Truer words have never been spoken mate"" The two bump closed fists, before opening, and doing that weird 'finger lock' where you curl up the fingers, and lock em.

Finishing up the 'bro shake', KeShawn hits the gas pedal, steering back onto the vast expanse that is ''Countrrry rrroooaadss''. Resuming the drive.

""Mate"" KeShawn says, staring down the road.

""Yheh?"" Daryl responds, mouth stuffed with Snibbler. Doesn't help that he has a Speech Impediment, but whatever. 

""It took ya 616 Se-kondz to get in the Jeep dude"" Staring at Daryl as he says this. Actually expecting him to have an attention span longer than a Goldfish on sugar, coffee, and soda.  
0  
Daryl tilts his head, firmly at an angle: //

""Uh.. Yheah?""

""'member what I said I'd do if you didn't get ur azz in the Jeep in 5 Minutos?""

Daryl.exe has stopped working. His mind draws a blank, nothing. Nil, Nada, Zilch.

""Uhhhhhhhh" He drones, lingering. With a Shovel, he begins digging down into the dirt of thought.

With lightening fast hands, KeShawn inserts a mixtape into the tape dock, twisting the dial knob all the way to the right, Volume Meter rising towards the right. Sound eminates forth from the box, vibing about in the air. You can feel the beat as it flows: ♫♪.ılılıll|̲̅̅●̲̅̅|̲̅̅=̲̅̅|̲̅̅●̲̅̅|llılılı.♫♪

""COOOOUNTRY ROOOADSS"" He sings songs, with a southern, bronx jazzy accent. His words smooth, yet sharp.

Daryl reacts someone's just poured, salt, lemon, and pepper onto a giant kidneygash. That is to say, complete and utter fucking horror. His face twisting, expression hardening, all that jazz.

""WHYYYYYYYY"" Gestures the Mopheaded Daryl with his hands, crying out with an agony as the rhythm slowly wiggles, worming into it's brain: _/\\__/\\__0>

KeShawn, in response, snickers. 

"Mate, why the hate? Let the country boy vibe dude". With the space, between the fingers and the center of the palm. Tap, taptap, taptaptaptap.

"Dhude, there'sh counthry and then there's country"" Daryl reflects, his voice boosting high in bass.

""And may I 'sk wat's so wrong some with good 'l 'ountry?"" He raises his southern inflection, the southern twang. Faking offense. Doing that thing where your palm is out flat, and your fingers spread out at a sharp angle?

""Brhuh, ihf iht were anhy mhore country in here. Whe'd be lynched"" Now, Daryl's ATTEMPTING to be serious, his face flat, and his voice lacking in bullshit tone gimmicks.

""Ha! You mean I'D be 'li-ynched'. Daryl, with a name like that, I bet they'd be crowdsurfing your ass to the homecoming game. -xpectin you to be a Star Quarterback or somefin. Da-Reel, Day-rill, Dire-real"" 

""Broh have you sheen these muschles? I'm total Shtar Quarterback materihal!"" He flexes. His arms, left and right, held out. Upper arm bent in, bicep bent. Hard and tensed.

KeShawn, grabbing some junky plastic rectangle. Speaks into it's back.

""Calling all officers, we got a sticc thinkin he a bricc. I repeat, we got a sticc, thinking he a bricc. Requesting back up"" He says, in a faux officer voice.

""And what arh they ghonna do bhout it, beat me?"" He snaps back.

""With YOUR whiteass? Psh, you'd needa do every felony in the book for them to shoot ur ass. Me on the other hand, why I put trash in the recycling bin and BAM! 10, 20 caps popped in my body by the second"" He utters forth. If his words were cups, then he just poured a gallons worth of water into it. Now water's seeping into the floorboards and OH FUCK THE ROOM IS FLOODED QUICK GET THE RAFT.

""OOF"" He snortles. A little droplet of mucus shooting itself out of his nose at mach fucking 11, splatting upon the dashboard in a thin little puddle.

-UNFINISHED-


End file.
